


All You Need is Love ... and Food

by PurpleAlmonds, thewightknight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Do not repost, Fluff, Food, M/M, Pining, Temptation, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), do not copy to another site, more food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleAlmonds/pseuds/PurpleAlmonds, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: Five meals that Aziraphale loved and one he didn't. (With one more bonus meal he loved.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 394
Kudos: 922
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Good Omens big bang](https://goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com/). Art is by the astounding [PurpleAlmonds](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/), who went above and beyond for this piece, so please give her all the love!
> 
> Chapters will be posted every few days between now and February 7th. Masterpost for all the art is [here.](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190313647136/here-is-my-masterpost-for-my-part-of-the)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49397665347/in/dateposted-public/)


	2. Oysters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A larger size of the art for this chapter can be found in the artist's tumblr post [here.](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190344155854/do-try-one-aziraphale-said-i-insist-he-was)

_I’ve never eaten an oyster._

_“Let me tempt you to… Oops. That’s your job, isn’t it?_

It had been mere happenstance, Aziraphale being there in that particular tavern at that particular moment. Or had it been? He would wonder at that throughout the millennia, from this day in Rome to the weeks after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. Could it possibly have been part of the great Ineffable Plan? God wasn’t around for him to ask Her.

Aziraphale would look back at this moment as his first temptation—not that it took much to tempt demons. It was in their nature, after all. They were the experienced ones at such things. But Crowley had looked so, well, sad, there in that tavern, with his jug of what the barkeep suggested was ‘drinkable’. Aziraphale had had a whiff of the house brown. ‘Drinkable’ wasn’t a term he’d ever have thought to use for it. Crowley needed something else—something better. Aziraphale knew just the thing.

“Come along!” he said, somewhere between a command and a plea. He half expected Crowley to refuse, and was pleasantly surprised when the demon stood when he did, leaving the tavern and following him out into the street. 

Crowley’s contributions to their conversation along the way were mostly grunts, with an occasional interjection of sarcasm. He did look a bit better as they wove their way through the crowds—not quite so lost, perhaps. His new style didn’t suit him though. Aziraphale remembered the waves of hair that had fallen past the demon’s shoulders. The severe cut with his austere black tunic wasn’t an improvement, not at all. 

Petronius’ restaurant was located near the docks and the owner took full advantage of its proximity. Fresh fish abounded and the scents that wafted from his kitchens set Aziraphale’s mouth to watering. The vintages at this establishment were more than merely drinkable as well.

When they entered, Petronius greeted them with a smile.

“ _Ave_ , _Dominus_ Aziraphale! It is good to see you again. And you bring a friend? Good, good!”

Aziraphale considered correcting him. He and Crowley weren’t really friends, after all. But Crowley didn’t object, so Aziraphale merely returned the smile. “How are the oysters today, Petronius?” he asked instead.

They were soon settled with a jug of excellent wine at a table overlooking the water, and shortly after that the oysters arrived.

They had been arranged on a shallow platter, the red glossy pottery contrasting with stems of asparagus artfully placed between the shells. Each oyster had been anointed with wine and herbs and baked in a clay oven, then drizzled with a rich sauce and sprinkled with crumbles of fresh cheese.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49396972913/in/album-72157712714185722/)

“Do try one,” Aziraphale said. “I insist.” He was atremble with anticipation at the sight of the delicacies laid out before him, but he had invited Crowley as his guest, so the demon should have the first taste.

“What do you do with it?” Crowley asked, poking at a shell with one finger. His glasses had slipped down his nose and Aziraphale could see the slit pupils contract and expand as he examined the platter.

“You pick it up. Like this, see?” Aziraphale demonstrated. “And then you pour it all into your mouth. Go ahead!”

Crowley mimicked him, a little wrinkle between his brows, and Aziraphale almost forgot to savor his own morsel, so intent was he on Crowley’s reaction.

“Well?” he asked after Crowley had swallowed.

“It’s all right, I guess.”

“All right? My dear Crowley, these are simply more than ‘all right’.” Crowley blinked at him and he realized what he’d said. Deciding after an eternity (of a second or two) that there was no way to excuse the endearment, he decided to ignore it in favor of the remaining bounty laid out before them. “Now do try some of the asparagus, too. It’s best while still hot.”

Crowley had another oyster and then pushed the platter over to Aziraphale. He sat there, a stalk of asparagus between his fingers, watching the humans around them devour their meals as Aziraphale ate the rest of the dozen and then placed another order.

“They seem to have recovered, haven’t they?” Crowley asked. He nibbled at the asparagus absentmindedly, almost as if he was unaware of what he was doing. It was good asparagus. And now Aziraphale had lost track of their conversation, between the delectable food and watching the bob of the asparagus as Crowley went back and forth between waving it around and poking the oyster shells with it.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale said.

“The humans. After that flood.” Crowley wagged the asparagus again, taking in the whole restaurant. “Look at them. Population’s bounced back. They’ve spread all over again. They’re all treating each other about the same as before. Didn’t seem to have made much of a difference, did it?”

That was something Aziraphale had been trying not to think about.

“Does anyone here even know what those rainbows are for?” Crowley asked.

“It’s all part of the Plan, I’m sure,” Aziraphale replied. Everything was part of God’s plan. It wasn’t Her fault if Aziraphale couldn’t comprehend why things happened the way they did.

“You trust Her that much, do you, angel?”

“Well, yes. I am Her angel, after all.”

“Yes, I guess you are.”

The diners around them, Aziraphale noticed, were watching them. He saw many a grin directed at their table. Was his delight in the food so extravagant as to be noticeable? Perhaps he should tone it down a bit. He tried—really he did—but the last oyster was as delectable as the first and he couldn’t stop the little shiver of pleasure as the herbs and wine exploded on his tongue again. The group at the table next to them laughed, and one of them winked at Aziraphale, holding up his wine in a salute.

“Why does everyone keep looking at us like that?” Aziraphale said after discarding the shell.

“You do know what they say about oysters, don’t you?” Crowley asked.

“What, that they are absolutely scrumptious?” Aziraphale eyed the platter of empty shells and considered placing another order.

Crowley began to laugh, a croak harsh from a throat seemingly unused to hilarity, and when Aziraphale stared at him in incomprehension, the wicked light reappeared in his eyes. “Oh, angel,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “Humans consider them an aphrodisiac.”

Realization dawned. “Oh. Oh my. That’s… Oh.”

Crowley continued laughing, and as he went on, his laughter grew less rough and each successive peal contained more cheer. At the sight of the demon laughing, Aziraphale came to the sudden realization that he wanted nothing more at that moment then to make Crowley laugh again. And oh no, this wouldn’t do at all.

This wasn’t a deliberate temptation on Crowley’s part, he knew, and that made it all the worse, because Aziraphale was sorely tempted to explore all the ways he could make Crowley laugh that laugh and smile that smile, and that just couldn’t happen. And he knew he should forgo that third platter of oysters—another temptation, there. But when Crowley dragged a finger through the spilled wine and herbs on the platter and contemplated it before licking it clean, Aziraphale relented. One more platter wouldn’t hurt, and perhaps a new jug of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although none of these recipes is exactly what I pictured here, the description of them was heavily influenced by a couple of [these](https://www.wideopeneats.com/15-oyster-recipes/).


	3. Fish Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely could not resist the Merlin crossover in this chapter. Mea culpa.
> 
> Art for this post can be found on tumblr [here](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190396246311/what-is-that-crowley-asked-staring-at-the).

_ I’m here spreading foment. _

_ Is that a kind of porridge? _

It had been a surprise, to find Crowley in the black suit of armor. It came as even more of a surprise several weeks later, in Camelot, when Aziraphale saw the demon sitting at a table across the main feasting hall from him one evening. No one seemed to note anything unusual about Crowley’s presence in a room full of people who knew each other intimately. The demon watched them all behind his clouded glasses, and no one commented on those either. Admittedly, there was no way to link the imposing figure in black armor with the elegantly gowned and coiffed vision that mingled among them, but Crowley was still a stranger in the crowd, and someone should have remarked on the demon's presence.

While Aziraphale was trying to decide if and how to approach the demon, Crowley’s eyes fell on him.

_ What are you doing here? _ Aziraphale mouthed.

Crowley raised his tankard in response.

Aziraphale lost sight of Crowley for a few minutes, as the servants wove in and around the carousing knights with their trenchers, trying not to spill anything. When the crowds thinned, Crowley had disappeared from his seat on the bench. Aziraphale scanned the crowd to no avail, then jumped when Crowley plopped down on the bench next to him.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale repeated, in as loud a whisper as could be heard over the general hubbub.

“Seeing the sights. Know one’s enemy, and all that. Oh, and drinking what’s drinkable.” Waving his hand at a passing servant, Crowley held his tankard out. “This isn’t bad as far as beers go, you know.”

“If you say so.” Aziraphale was drinking wine, as usual.

“I was chatting up that young chap. What was his name? Oh! Merlin! Remarkable fellow. Can you believe, no one has figured out he can do magic?”

“Shush, you!” Aziraphale shot anxious looks around but no one seemed to have overheard Crowley. “Magic is forbidden in Camelot.”

“Really? Shame, that. How do you get on, then?”

“Surreptitiously.”

Merlin refilled Arthur’s goblet, then Guinevere’s. He said something that made the king roll his eyes while Gwen laughed. Lancelot, on Arthur’s left, drained his own goblet before standing, bowing, and leaving the table. Gwen’s eyes followed him as he threaded his way through the crowds until he disappeared from sight.

“There’s a lot of possibilities going on between those four, you know. The king, his queen, the knight, and the manservant who isn’t a wizard. So much mischief waiting to happen,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale knew the demon had a twinkle in his eyes behind his glasses.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Aziraphale scolded.

“But….”

“No.” Aziraphale put on his most stern face, staring Crowley down until he relented, or at least gave the appearance of doing so.

“Well, all right then. I don’t think they need my help, anyway. Looks like they’ll muck it up all on their own,” Crowley mumbled that last bit so Aziraphale could pretend he hadn’t heard it.

As they watched, Arthur took Gwen’s hand and raised it to his lips.

“I’m sure they’ll all reach an amicable arrangement,” said Aziraphale. “And after all, She did command them to love one another.” How that commandment could and would apply to the king, his queen, his manservant who was a secret wizard, and his knight who knew the king’s manservant was a secret wizard and was in love with the queen, Aziraphale hadn’t quite figured out yet, but it would go according to plan, whatever that Plan was. 

“What She said and what the humans say She said are usually two entirely different things, angel.”

He might have argued the point with Crowley if one of the servants hadn’t stopped before them, sliding the contents of a trencher onto the table in front of them.

“What is that?” Crowley asked, staring at the dish.

“Oh, my favorite! Fish pie!” cried Aziraphale.

“You’re joking.” Crowley scowled at the dish down the length of his nose, pushing back a curl that had come loose and fallen across his forehead.

“I am most certainly not,” Aziraphale said, trying not to think about how fetching a look that was on Crowley.

“’Fish’ and ‘pie’ are two words that should never be combined,” Crowley pronounced, turning his head this way and that as he continued to glare at the pie.

“Oh ye of little faith. It is delightful. Here. You must try some.” Aziraphale deftly cut a slice and slid it onto a plate. “Here,” he repeated, pushing it towards Crowley.

“You first,” Crowley said, scowl transferred to Aziraphale now. He poked at the pie with a finger, making no move to pick up his fork.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49397457041/in/album-72157712714185722/)

“Well, if you insist.” Aziraphale helped himself to a much larger piece than he’d given the demon before ceding the pie to one of the other knights and cut off a generous bite of his slice. Lifting the fork to his lips, he inhaled. The aroma of the various fruits mingled with the earthy tang of the haddock—he sighed in appreciation. “Oh, my.”

Crowley muttered something. It sounded like “It’s the oysters all over again,” but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure. He didn’t ask, either, as Crowley had raised his own forkful to eye level and was examining the contents.

“Oh, stop dilly dallying and eat it, you silly demon,” Aziraphale said.

“Silly?” Crowley protested, but he deigned to put food in his mouth at last. He chewed and swallowed, and Aziraphale waited, and waited.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked at last.

“Well, what?” Crowley said.

“Well, what do you think? Of the pie?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess.”

It really was the oysters all over again. “Someday, Crowley, you’ll…”

Aziraphale was cut off in mid-sentence by a commotion between the tables. One of the servants had slipped and dropped the soup she’d been carrying. Someone else had slipped in the spilled soup and knocked into one of the sconces, tipping it over and spilling burning oil. The flames had narrowly missed one of the knights’ ladies. 

The flames should have hit her. The oil had somehow twisted away from her, evaporating harmlessly in the air. Looking up, Aziraphale caught a brief flash of gold in Merlin’s eyes.

“Seriously, how do they not know?” Crowley asked. “It’s so obvious.”

“They see what they want to see. They always have.”

“And they don’t want to see magic, yes.” Crowley took another bite, unprompted, and Aziraphale beamed at him. The demon didn’t notice. “Magic is going out of the world, you know. Science will take over.”

And there, Crowley was back to brooding again, and Aziraphale wouldn’t stand for that. Maybe another bite of pie would bring his smile back? “There are good things about science, my dear,” Aziraphale hastened to reassure him as he waved his fork in Crowley’s direction. “Think of it! There’ll be advances in medicine and technology. People will be healthier and their lives will be easier and they’ll live longer.” Cutting off another piece, he raised it up between them. “And think of all the new wonders they’ll invent!”

Crowley remained unconvinced. “Yes, but we’ve already lost the unicorns,” he said. “There’s only one dragon left now. Soon all of the other magical creatures will follow, and then what will we be left with? Armadillos? Skunks?”

“Skunks are rather cute, though. When they don’t spray.” He’d had one unfortunate encounter with a skunk and although he’d miracled the smell away immediately the memory still lingered.

“Always looking on the bright side, aren’t you, angel?”

“Well, of course I am. It’s in the job description, you know?”

Crowley smiled at him, and there was a strange flutter in Aziraphale’s chest. He attempted to quell it with more pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fish pie, or [tart de brymlent](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medieval_cuisine#Food_preparation), was and is actually a thing. I am morbidly curious about this, but not so much so that I think i will try to make it sometime. (I was seriously tempted to try to make Feast Day Pie from Dragon Age until I actually [watched someone make](https://youtu.be/zRnhGQo2c1k) it and now I shy away from the concept.)
> 
> (I also just realized that I forgot to include the food reference for the previous chapter so I'm adding it now!)


	4. Gâteau de crêpes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who could have guessed a craving for _crêpes_ would have lead to this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art for this chapter can be found [here](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190444579597/when-presented-with-the-g%C3%A2teau-de-cr%C3%AApes).

_My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance. So I thought I’d better go check out what they were commending me for._

French peasant garb was so horribly drab, even with the dash of tartan Aziraphale managed to sneak in. Everything seemed so drab now. All the bright colors and luxurious fabrics had been replaced by rough, neutral colors, as if the entire country was afraid to do anything that might call attention to itself.

This couldn’t be something She’d planned, could it, he wondered, as the distant cheer of the crowd drowned out the occasional impact of blade to neck. This had to be some Infernal plan. But Crowley had admitted to having nothing to do with it, and from what hints he’d dropped about the other demons, Aziraphale couldn’t imagine they had the aptitude or subtlety to instigate this revolution.

A gentle mist had begun to fall, turning the streetlights into pillars of fiery light in the early evening gloom. They reminded him of a certain sword, and that led him to thoughts of a certain apple, and then a certain choice.

“Do you think this is all because of the apple?” he asked Crowley as they walked.

“Do you mean this ‘chopping heads off thing’, or all things in general?” Crowley said.

“Well, both, I guess.”

“I thought you thought everything was part of Her Ineffable Plan?”

Aziraphale regarded Crowley with suspicion, but there was no malice in Crowley’s tone – just simple curiosity. “I’m sure it is, even if we can’t see how.” As they continued through the streets, he muttered to himself, “It still would be nice to know sometimes.” If Crowley heard him, the demon gave no sign.

The restaurant Aziraphale led them to showed signs of the general disorder that had become prevalent throughout the city, as did the owner. There were a few frayed threads on the edges of his apron, and his waistcoat, where it peeked out from beneath, had its colors muted by flour. He twisted his hat in his hands as he led them to a table. They were the only two patrons, and the prime table didn’t seem quite as prime because of this.

“A pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Aziraphale. And you bring a friend!”

“Lovely to see you as well, Honoré.”

They were seated with a flourish and much fussing. Once they were settled, Honoré asked, “What is your pleasure, gentle sirs?”

“After today, I think something sweet. Surprise us?” Aziraphale asked, and something of the old life flared in Honoré’s eyes.

“I know just the thing! Would you care for wine while you wait?”

“Of course!”

They were served a dessert vintage and Aziraphale could tell it didn’t fit Crowley’s mood. Shame, that. After the close call he’d had, it absolutely did the trick for him. He savored the bouquet with each sip, swirling the wine in his glass. There were still good things here, even in the midst of all these troubles, and that was a good thing. Without the small joys of life, the world would be a drearier place.

With this thought in mind, he put forth a little exertion of his will that ensured that this place would stay safe and untouched throughout the troubles ahead. He couldn’t do anything about the whole country. That would earn him a serious reprimand, and possibly repercussions. But this? This, and other small things, he could do.

“It’s the little things, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, as if he’d been following Aziraphale’s thoughts. Of course he had noticed what Aziraphale had done, so that could have prompted his words as well. “They add up, in every way. The question is, can there be enough little good deeds to get them through all this?”

“I like to think so.” Aziraphale _had_ to think so. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Distressed, he took another swallow of wine. They were almost through the bottle. Perhaps he could coax Crowley into sharing another.

When presented with the _gâteau de crêpes,_ Aziraphale’s conviction in the good of little things increased. “Look at this glorious creation! It brings happiness to the world simply by existing.” Not that the dish in front of them was little, not at all. Thirty crêpes, paper thin, were stacked on top of each other, with filling spread between each crêpe. The aroma of lemon and sugar wafted up from the stack and Aziraphale breathed it in, sighing in happiness.

“But really, angel, is this worth nearly getting discorporated for?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale decided not to answer that. As he sliced through the layers, the sweet cream parted beneath the serving knife, almost a miracle in itself. Did Moses feel like this at the Red Sea, he wondered? Perhaps, but he couldn’t have eaten it.

As the first bite passed between his lips, all seemed right with the world at that very moment. (Back in that square outside the dungeon they’d left, onlookers gasped as a very bemused nobleman discovered himself still in possession of his head, despite the fact that the blade had fallen with a definite thud and even now rested quivering around his neck.)

The first bite was followed by the rest of the first slice, and then a second and third. Crowley pushed his around on his plate, making a frightful mess, after taking only one taste.

Honoré was still wringing his hat in his hands as he approached their table, but for a different reason this time. “Is there something wrong, _monsieur_?” he asked Crowley.

“When is there not something wrong?” Crowley replied, and Aziraphale kicked him in the ankle.

“He means with the food, Crowley.”

Realization dawned on Crowley’s face. “Oh, that. No, no. It’s perfectly fine,” he hastened to reassure Honoré. “I’m not really much of a dessert person. My friend’s the sweet one.”

Oh. Oh, my. Aziraphale took another bite to hide how flustered those last few words had made him. Neither Crowley nor Honoré seemed to notice.

“Why did you not say so before?” Honoré exclaimed. “Wait, now. I have the perfect thing!”

Ignoring Crowley’s protests, Honoré scurried back into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he reappeared, plate in one hand and a pewter mug in the other.

“Ham and gruyere with béchamel sauce, and a nice crisp cider for you, monsieur!” He took several steps back and stood there, waiting.

“Well, try it!” Aziraphale prompted.

Crowley scowled at him, but took a bite. He rolled it around in his mouth and both Aziraphale and Honoré held their breath.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49396980273/in/album-72157712714185722/)

“That’s rather good, that is,” Crowley pronounced at last, and coming from him that was high praise.

A huge smile broke out on Honoré’s face. “There. I will leave you gentlemen to your repast now.” Honoré bowed and returned to the kitchen, leaving them alone together with their cr _ê_ pes.

“You need to finish that, or you’ll insult him,” Aziraphale cautioned, when Crowley began pushing his new crêpe around his plate again.

“We can’t have that, can we? It’s not like I’m a demon or anything. Oh, wait!”

Crowley’s glasses had slipped, but even if they hadn’t, Aziraphale would have intuited the wicked gleam in his eye. He kicked Crowley in the ankle again.

“Hush, now, you. And do try the cider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not yet made myself a [gâteau de crêpes](https://www.thelittleepicurean.com/2011/09/gateau-de-crepes-crepe-cake.html), but it will happen some day.


	5. Mulligatawny Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter can be found [here](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190496854942/it-had-never-once-crossed-aziraphales-mind-that).

_What are you doing here?_

_Needed a word with you._

The forties had been awful. The war, the deaths, the rationing – all had conspired to make Aziraphale consider pulling a Crowley. That is, to sleep away a decade or two. But he’d never mastered the art of sleeping. A short nap every few years did him nicely, but after only a day or two he’d be up and about again. It was rather frustrating.

After the war, things started to bounce back, but the fifties had still been somewhat lackluster. There were some foods that needed to be boiled, but there were many more that never should be. The humans also started to do some strange things with music, and the dancing that accompanied it was rather more acrobatic than Aziraphale liked.

But the sixties? The sixties agreed with Aziraphale very much.

The nineteen sixties were the age of love. Everyone was talking about it. _Free love_ , the papers screamed. _Free love_ shouted the brightly clad youths at the park. He wasn’t quite sure about some of the styles popular with the youngsters of this era, but there were lines to some of the pieces that harkened back to the Victorian Era, and so he observed the stripes and strange patterns they sported with an indulgent smile. They did tend towards plaid rather often, and of this he heartily approved.

The people seemed friendlier too, as youngsters for whom the hardships were only a faint memory, or who didn’t remember them at all, matured and grew. It wasn’t unusual for people to smile and wave at him as he took his walks. On several occasions, he’d heard some of these smiling folks remark that he looked like a hobbit after they’d passed each other. This led him to the discovery of a new set of books to love, and wasn’t that marvelous?

Another of the other good things about the nineteen sixties was the resurgence of impromptu get-togethers with his favorite demon. Things had been strained between them for several decades, after the request and the refusal that followed. Things had begun to thaw after that day in the church with the books and the bomb, and before then it had been one of the longest centuries to date, but now things were definitely looking up again. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t figured out that sleep thing after all.

Speaking of marvelous things, in these fine years, food was on the rebound too. There were so many new dishes to discover! There was a pub that he had become fond of over the last few years. They had a variety of scrumptious luncheon specials, and Thursday’s special was his favorite. It was to this pub that he brought Crowley one day, after their chance (not really chance) meeting at their usual bench by the pond in the park.

“Mulligatawny soup? What on earth is that?” Crowley asked, peering at the menu over the top of his glasses.

“Only an absolutely delightful dish, my dear. Would I lead you astray?”

“Well, that depends on your definition of ‘astray’, angel. My comrades down below would argue that our little arrangement would qualify, if they knew about it.”

“Oh, tush. That little thing. Now, just you wait.”

He wouldn’t admit it to Crowley but he could let the thought pass through his own mind – mulligatawny soup wasn’t the most attractive of meals. He did love the bright yellow color, but it didn’t have the visual contrast that marked most of his other favorite foods. But he didn’t care. There was something so delightful about the flavor of curry and that made up for what the meal’s appearance lacked. Curry danced on your tongue, one instant like a waltz and the next the seasoning was doing the Cha Cha across your taste buds. The apples leant the perfect hint of sweetness and the cream added a depth to it, a richness that lingered on the palate long after you’d finished your spoonful.

Aziraphale lifted just one such spoonful and sniffed, sighing in happiness even before he’d taken his first taste. He didn’t delay in the tasting after that. The first spoonful was followed by a second, and a third, and he’d have happily have continued until he hit the bottom of the bowl, but for one thing:

“You haven’t tried your soup yet, Crowley.”

“No, I haven’t.” The demon was stirring it around with his spoon, poking at random bits as they floated to the surface.

“Well, come on, then! Spit spot!”

“Have you been watching Mary Poppins again?” Crowley asked as he lifted a spoonful from the bowl at last. His nostrils flared as he held it before his lips. “What all is in this, then?”

“The usual soup things, with some spices and herbs,” Aziraphale said. “There’s a spot of chicken too, and some rice.”

After scowling at the bowl a bit more, Crowley took a spoonful at last. He swallowed, then froze.

It had never once crossed Aziraphale’s mind that the spices were, well, rather _spicy_ in this particular soup. “Is something wrong, Crowley?” he asked, alarm beginning to stir in his chest as a flush began at the collar of Crowley’s shirt and traveled up his face. He now looked rather like a tomato in hue and it clashed horribly with his hair. 

Crowley resembled, Aziraphale couldn’t help but think, one of those cartoon characters he’d seen from time to time on the televisions displayed in shopfront windows. “Crowley?” he asked again when he didn’t get a response. Could smoke come out of a demon’s ears? He both did and didn’t want to find out.

It was another two or three heartbeats before Crowley opened his mouth, but instead of issuing forth words he drew in a huge gasp of air, let it out with a hiss and then took in another.

“Oh, I do say!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“HOT!” Crowley gasped out at last, fanning himself.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49407490066/in/album-72157712714185722/)

Not knowing what else to do, Aziraphale pushed one of the water glasses at him. Crowley grasped at it and downed it in three huge gulps. “Better now?” Aziraphale asked.

“Worse,” Crowley whimpered, fanning his open mouth and panting.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Aziraphale cast about for something else to give him, but the only other thing on the table were the little packets of crackers for the chowder the pub served. “Give this a try then,” he said, beginning to grow a bit desperate as Crowley continued to gasp and whine. The crackers did seem to help a bit, and the pub owner, having clued in to what was happening, brought them over a plate of naan. He grinned and winked at Aziraphale behind Crowley’s back before returning to the bar.

Several healthy helpings of starch later, Crowley seemed mostly back to normal. He shoved his bowl over to Aziraphale’s side of the table. “I wonder if I can claim inventing this torture device too,” he said, and Aziraphale beamed at him.

“Spicy food is not torture, my dear.”

“Says you!”

Aziraphale finished off his bowl, and the remainder of Crowley’s as well, while Crowley nursed a pint of dark ale, and they talked and laughed and talked some more. As the afternoon passed, Aziraphale felt a warmth that wasn’t entirely due to the curry spread through his body. He’d missed this, their camaraderie. He liked that they were back again, almost, to the way he had been. He wanted it to continue on like this. And so, when he became aware of a caper in the works, he made a decision.

A few days later, he surprised Crowley, beaming at him from the passenger seat of his beloved car when Crowley slid in behind the wheel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mulligatawny soup ](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/13087/mulligatawny-soup-i/)is amazing and you should try it.


	6. Unagi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter is posted [here](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190552094955/angels-werent-supposed-to-be-mean-or-cruel-they#notes).

_Why do you consume that? You’re an angel._

Sushi was not gross matter, no matter what Gabriel might think. The care, the craftsmanship that went into every single piece made each bite a taste of love. If anything, instead of sullying, it uplifted celestial matter—in his experiences throughout the ages.

“Honored Aziraphale-san,” the chef called him, as if he wasn’t the one who should be honored. Each one of the chef’s creations was an edible work of art and he put all of his heart into creating every piece. Tonight Aziraphale had started with eel, looking forward to discovering what the sauce for the evening was. Now it sat on his plate, gone sadly cold. He ate it anyway. It would be an insult to do otherwise.

“Is there something else you’d like, Aziraphale-san?” the chef asked when he’d finished.

“Not tonight, thank you.” 

It was there, sitting at the counter on that particular evening, that Aziraphale came to a startling conclusion. Gabriel was mean. No, he was more than mean. Gabriel was cruel. Gabriel would smile and tell you how good a job you were doing, but you came away with the feeling that you were absolutely terrible – the worst excuse for an angel in Heaven.

Angels weren’t supposed to be mean, or cruel. They were supposed to be creatures of love. They were supposed to care and nurture, not insult and demean. This couldn’t be part of that Ineffable Plan to which everything fit into in some ineffable way beyond a mere angel’s comprehension. It startled him, at that moment, to realize that he had come to the realization he’d just reached: if this was part of the Plan, then he wanted no part in it.

Was this what it felt like, to fall?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49453774161/)

But he still had his wings, whiter than the purest snow. He still had his grace, he discovered, as he nudged an event that would lead to good and joy for a particular human. And he still had his love. Love for these wonderful, glorious, fallible humans. And love, in a certain corner of his being that he kept carefully tucked away lest it lead him down a perilous path, for a certain demon.

This was a different perilous path he’d discovered now, so what, really, was the danger of that other one?

But that was a thought to explore at a later time. If they had a later time, that is. What would be the result of an angel saying ‘I love you’ to a demon, though? Would there be spontaneous combustion? Would the earth tilt on its axis? Would God Herself come down to reprimand him, and perhaps remember about that thing with the sword while She was at it?

The startling thing was, he found he didn’t care. Well, with the exception of the spontaneous combustion bit. That would be horrid. But the rest of it? Why it could…it could…it could go to hell!

He half expected to spontaneously combust himself at that thought, but nothing happened—not even a little scorching of the feathers.

Once he got over being startled at himself, he began to ponder, and to remember, and although he’d never said those exact words (I love you), he had demonstrated it in countless other deeds and words throughout their millennia together. It had begun with the offer of a wing to protect him from the rain and stretched out, on and on, until he’d reached this realization on this day. It was a day of revelations. Not the biblical kind, although those were soon to come.

_You go too fast for me._

He’d told Crowley that, and in one respect it was the absolute truth, but in another it was one of the biggest lies ever told. (The only one that would ever come close was when he said _We aren’t friends_ and _I don’t even like you_ on a day many, many years later, standing under a gazebo and avoiding the hurt in a pair of slit-pupiled eyes _._ ) They were friends (and possibly more) and their friendship (and possibly more) spanned the history of the world. Fast, indeed. Maybe they’d be able to explore this at last, but before that could happen they had an apocalypse to derail.

If they survived this, it would be a miracle.

_Miracles are what we do._

“I don’t suppose you’d care to weigh in on this?” he asked, looking up. As expected, he got no response from above, and he was left with the nagging feeling that this didn’t seem right. This couldn’t be part of the Divine Plan. Why would She create all this and then let it get wiped away? No, that couldn’t be right – not at all.

Crowley seemed to agree with him, in a rather roundabout way.

_What about diabolical plans?_

Thwarting. That was what he was supposed to do. That meant that attempting to stop the Antichrist was the right thing to do.

“Well, then, I guess we’ll have to see what we can do about it.”

This thought led him to one of the most intense decades of their six millennia on Earth, as ‘Brother Francis’ and ‘Nanny’ embarked on their mission to make the Antichrist as normal as was heavenly and infernally as possible.

‘Nanny’ was surprisingly good with young Warlock, if you discounted the bedtime songs. Nanny fed the baby and changed him and bathed him and picked him up and gave him cuddles and kisses when he fell, and was overly generous with hugs. (At least that’s what Warlock’s father was known to say on the few occasions when he was around enough to notice.) And Warlock seemed to be growing up into a normal boy, or as normal as you could be when you were the son of a diplomat and a movie star (and a fallen angel), living in a giant mansion in a country your parents didn’t consider home, and under the tutelage of beings celestial and infernal.

During the course of the next eleven years, a curious thing happened. He and Crowley became a ‘we’. It wasn’t something that should ever have happened. An angel and a demon shouldn’t make up a ‘we’. They were on opposite sides, even if there had been some blurring of the lines over these last few centuries. Well, perhaps ‘blurring’ was an understatement. But that wasn’t the issue now, so he didn’t need to think about it too deeply. The issue was that this was all about to go away, and even though they’d done their best, their best might not have been good enough.

But of course, as things played out, their efforts were all for naught.

How would it have worked out, he wondered later? If there hadn’t been the mix-up, and they’d helped raise the actual Antichrist, and the boy who’d been named Warlock had grown up in Tadfield, would things have turned out differently? They’d never know.

It had worked out in the end, so he didn’t need to think about it, but he still did, from time to time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession - I am not a sushi person. I will have a California roll once every 2-3 years and that's about it. I've got some texture issues when it comes to food, and sushi consists of a lot of things that have a mouthfeel that do not agree with me. So no food links to go with this chapter today.
> 
> Side note: the bit about how Gabriel made you feel like the worst excuse for an angel is from [an interview Jon Hamm did ](https://wehaveahulk.co.uk/amazon-prime-host-good-omens-world-premiere-in-london/)about his depiction of Gabriel. It stuck with me, obviously.


	7. Menu Surprise (Sunday Lunch Menu with fine wine selection)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's art can be found [here](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190621772681/they-didnt-go-to-the-ritz-every-sunday-after-the).

_ I like to think none of this would have worked out if you weren’t at heart, just a little bit, a good person. _

_ Or if you weren’t, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. _

They didn’t go to the Ritz every Sunday, after the Apocawasn’t. That was how Crowley referred to the world not ending. Personally, Aziraphale preferred Notmageddon, but he kept that preference to himself, because Crowley had begun taking more than a few bites of his food at each meal so he was inclined to be more indulgent than usual. He’d also begun to acquiesce more frequently when Aziraphale insisted on feeding him a taste of this or a morsel of that.

Aziraphale sometimes forgot about his own food, as hard as that would be to imagine. Instead, he kept finding himself entranced in the play of expressions across Crowley’s face as the demon analyzed each bite, rolling it around in his mouth to hit the different parts of his tongue. Whatever they called the great intervention really didn’t matter, not one bit—not when Crowley displayed this newfound enthusiasm for Aziraphale’s most favorite passion. Sometimes he let his human guise slip just the tiniest bit and Aziraphale would catch a glimpse of a fork in that tongue, as the demon lost himself in the flavors and textures of the various dishes Aziraphale placed before him. He’d always been indulgent where the demon was concerned, but now? Now he was finding that attempting to spoil Crowley was more fun than spoiling himself.

It seemed in their eternal game of tit for tat, it was currently his turn to tempt. He did so with the choice morsels on his fork, waving them in front of Crowley’s face until the demon gave in. The courses changed with the season and things tended to be on the sweeter side during the summer months, with a prevalence of fruit. Dishes based around apples were guaranteed to bring a smile to Crowley’s lips, simultaneously sly and sweet. A contradiction, was his demon.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49482079922/in/album-72157712714185722/)

“So what next, then?” Crowley asked as they lingered over their sweets.

“Well, I don’t know. Whatever we like, I suppose?” They were unmoored now, beholden to neither Heaven nor Hell, after their respective Incidents. Neither side seemed to want anything to do with either of them now. That probably wouldn’t last, but they should have a decade or two to themselves while Upstairs and Down figured things out.

“I suppose.”

Fiddling with his fork, Crowley seemed to be avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. That wouldn’t do. “Would you still want to visit Alpha Centauri?” Aziraphale asked. “Together, that is?”

“I guess we could. But I’m fine here. Here’s here to stay, now. Here’s where my best friend is.” At that, Crowley did meet his eyes, at least for a few seconds. Then he went back to toying with his food again. “Wherever we are is good.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to wonder about that ‘we’ anymore. It had begun there on the wall of Eden, and it had led them to this, when they’d stood side by side again six millennia later, daring to say no to both Heaven and Hell. And now, sitting here at this table, sharing a meal together, as they’d done so many times, it seemed to him that when one of them said ‘we’ (but especially when Crowley said it), that ‘we’ encompassed the whole world.

Their waiter interrupted his musings, an almost comical look of apology on his face. “I’m so sorry, but there has been an unfortunate mishap in the kitchen.”

Aziraphale did vaguely remember hearing a crash a few minutes ago, but had discounted it as the usual kitchen bustle. It seemed like it might have been something more noteworthy after all.

“We no longer have the fig leaf torte available,” the waiter continued. “Would it be acceptable to substitute the Grand Marnier soufflé?”

“Oh, that is unfortunate. Oh, dear. If only something could be done about that.” Aziraphale fixed his most innocent gaze on Crowley, who scowled at him. (It was a most affectionate scowl, he noticed.)

“Stop fishing for miracles, angel,” Crowley told him. “How about the salted peanut parfait?” he asked the waiter, who murmured his approval, bowed, and retreated from their table.

“Why, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, shock warring with pride, “that’s quite daring of you!”

“Well, we have dared a lot, haven’t we?” Raising his glass, Crowley clinked it against Aziraphale’s.

“That we have, my dear demon. That we have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I will ever dine at the Ritz, but [Sunday brunch looks amazing](https://www.theritzlondon.com/dine-with-us/the-ritz-restaurant/ritz-restaurant-menus/).
> 
> Now that you've reached the end of this chapter, you may be going 'Wait! That _was_ five meals Zira liked and one he didn't. Why isn't the story over yet?' Well, because it isn't.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PurpleAlmond's art for this chapter is [here](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190715968936/yes-i-was-thinking-and-crowley-lifted). 
> 
> Edited to add: and now there's bonus art! PurpleAlmonds won a DTIYS challenge from[ Whiteley Foster](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/), and asked for[ another piece of art for our fic ](https://www.instagram.com/p/B84SvaJlfaF/)as her prize.

It had become more normal, visiting Crowley at his flat. Before this they’d always rendezvoused at Aziraphale's shop, or on that bench by the pond at the park, or ‘accidentally’ met up at a pub. But since Apocawasn’t/Notmageddon, invitations to Crowley’s had become a semi-regular thing.

So it was on one Sunday afternoon that Aziraphale locked up the shop with a snap of his fingers and ambled down the lane to pop in for a visit. He paused outside the door to Crowley’s flat, sniffing, and frowned. It was a bit early in the year for someone to be burning leaves. Shrugging, he opened the door, then stopped, nostrils flaring again.

“Crowley?”

An odor of charcoal and smoke permeated the apartment. All the windows were open. Aziraphale had never known they  _ could _ open. The plants all seemed to be leaning away from the back of the flat, leaves all a-tremble. As he walked through the front room he could hear clanging and swearing coming from one of the other rooms further in.

“Crowley?” he called out again.

“In here,” Crowley answered, a sharp tone to his voice that gave Aziraphale pause.

Had Crowley’s erstwhile associates come for another visit? He didn’t catch a hint of sulfur in the smoke that filled the apartment. Putting aside his unease, he followed the sound of the demon’s voice. He gave the rooms he passed through a thorough examination, in case someone was lurking. Not seeing anything didn’t quiet his unease. Any of their compatriots could appear at a moment’s notice, after all.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried – not about an ambush, at least. All thoughts of further angelic and/or infernal retribution hanging in the wings evaporated as he stopped dead in the doorway of a room that hadn’t existed the last time he’d visited.

“When did you put a kitchen in here?” Aziraphale asked, blinking in shock. Wooden cabinets lined the walls, and between them sat a gigantic stainless-steel refrigerator and a six-burner gas stove. There was also an island with a marble top, iridescent black with streaks of red running through it. “Are those cabinets bamboo?”

“Yes – sustainable woods and all that. And I put a kitchen in when I decided to make you dinner.”

“Oh, how lovely of you!” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley. 

Crowley scowled back. “You say that now, angel, but my meal has foundered on the rocks of iniquity.”

“I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” Aziraphale hastened to reassure him before glancing down at the pan on the stove. “Oh,” he said when he saw the carbonized mass of what might once have been a chicken breast. “Oh, my.”

“Yep,” Crowley agreed.

“Well, maybe we could still salvage it?” Aziraphale asked.

“Only with a miracle, and if you do that then I won’t have made you dinner, now, will I? Same as if I waggle my fingers.”

“Well, we could start over. From scratch, the two of us?”

Miracling up dinner was cheating, according to Crowley, but summoning a bag of groceries didn’t count, according to whatever system of classification the demon had created.

“Do you have a recipe?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley made a scoffing noise. “Well, let’s pull one up on that phone you’re so fond of, shall we?”

In six millennia, Aziraphale had never cooked himself, either, but it couldn’t be that hard. He’d watched uncounted chefs while they prepared his food. You cut and mixed and rolled things like this or that, and used this oil in the pan, with a pat or two of butter, and you sprinkled the herbs and spices over everything and there were instructions for the pasta right there on the box. 

Crowley could wield a knife, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, and he julienned vegetables so perfectly he might as well have miracled them. Well, in his case, it wouldn’t have been a miracle, but the thought was the same.

You’d think an angel and a demon could produce something edible from a recipe. If you did think so, you’d be wrong. But Aziraphale still loved it, every gummy, overly-salty, (more than) slightly charred bite. They’d made it together, after all.

“Well, we’ll just have to practice a bit more, is all,” he said as they were doing the dishes. He’d insisted on doing it the ‘right’ way and Crowley had only grumbled a bit about it. Crowley kept dropping the plates, on purpose, Aziraphale suspected. With a flick of a finger, each appeared whole in the drying rack. When Crowley scowled at him he affected an innocent air.

“Don’t know why we bothered,” Crowley grumbled after the last pan was scrubbed and dish was dried.

“It’s part of the experience, my dear.” Drying his hands on the towel that hadn’t been tartan when they started, he hung it on the oven handle and started rolling his sleeves back down.

“Don’t,” Crowley said, taking his hands. “I like them like this. I like  _ you _ like this.”

“What? Why? It’s horribly not together,” Aziraphale protested.

“But it’s domestic. Homey,” Crowley said.

“Oh, well, then. I guess I could leave them?” Aziraphale ended his words on a questioning note and was rewarded with one of Crowley’s increasingly frequent smiles.

“Good,” the demon said. And then, “So I was thinking, angel…”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I was thinking,” and Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hands, depositing a kiss on each, “that we might skip trying to cook dessert.”

“Bake dessert,” Aziraphale corrected.

“What?”

Aziraphale weighed whether or not to delve into the differences between cooking and baking, but decided against it when Crowley planted another kiss on one of his knuckles. “Never mind. So, what do you have in mind? I’ve heard they’ve got some new things at Élan.”

“I thought we might skip dessert altogether.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale began to protest, but then Crowley pulled him closer, one hand coming to rest at the small of his back. “Oh!”

Aziraphale did not miss not having dessert that evening.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49506840492/in/dateposted-public/)


	9. Post Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter is [here](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190767833971/she-stopped-outside-the-ritz-for-a-minute-or-two).

Nowhere else is the capacity for human inventiveness more apparent as when it comes to food. For instance, take the sea urchin. It was not created with consumption in mind, but humans went ahead and did it anyway. And then there are things like the puffer fish, or the African bullfrog. Let’s not even get started on absinthe. Humans had been on a quest to figure out a way to put absolutely anything and everything into their bodies since the dawn of time.

These thoughts were forefront in the mind of the Person walking through the streets of London early one Sunday afternoon. She passed through the crowds with nary a jostle or a bump, as people, while they didn’t seem to actually see Her, always managed to never be in Her way. Her attention never seemed to focus on any one thing in particular, but at the same time She managed to pay attention to every single thing that happened around Her, no matter how many things were happening at the same time.

There was a brief pause outside of a certain flat. The plants inside preened under Her attention, even though they couldn’t see Her. (Can plants see? That’s a mystery to be solved another day.)

A short stroll took Her to a certain bookshop. As She gazed through the windows, several new first editions appeared on the shelves.

As She passed by the Sondheim Theater, She paused to consider, chin in one hand, but eventually shook Her head and moved on. This wasn’t a day for  _ Les Misérables. _

A whole chorus of nightingales greeted Her as she strolled through Trafalgar Square. This time, people noticed. Pictures were taken, and videos posted to Instagram and YouTube. The bird songs continued as She moved along.

She stopped outside the Ritz for a minute or two, looking inside. The diners didn’t notice Her, even the two at the prime table up front, even though the occupants of that table should have been attuned to Her presence. They had other things on their minds, though. As the angel offered a morsel from his plate to the demon and the demon took it with halfhearted protests, She smiled.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49519260378/in/dateposted-public/)

For the rest of the afternoon She toured the streets of London, stopping here and there to observe, Her smile never fading. As the sky turned dark, She happened to find herself outside of an elegant little sushi restaurant. This was completely by chance, and not part of any plan, Ineffable or otherwise, but sometimes the universe moves even God in mysterious ways.

Opening the door, She walked in and seated herself at the counter.

“Welcome, honored guest,” the chef told Her. “This is your first time here, yes?”

“It is, yes, but you come highly recommended. Would you happen, by any chance, to be serving eel this evening?”

Ineffably, he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end at last. Thank you so much, all of you, for the kudos and comments--this has been an amazing journey. Also, extra thanks (I can never give enough thanks) for all the gorgeous art. It has breathed so much life into the scenes I wrote, and watching each piece unfold has been a series of miracles.
> 
> _To the world!_


	10. Bonus Chapter!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here are the sketch layouts for the illustrations for each of the chapter pieces. They're also posted in [a Flickr album](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/albums/72157712714185722) and on [tumblr](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/post/190791722636/to-cap-off-my-posts-for-the-goodomensbigbang). Hope you enjoy!

Oysters:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49526443902/in/dateposted-public/)

Fish Pie:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49526444882/in/dateposted-public/)

Crepes:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49525715293/in/dateposted-public/)

Soup:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49526227131/in/dateposted-public/)

Unagi:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49526227956/in/dateposted-public/)

Menu Surprise:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49526449322/in/dateposted-public/)

Epilogue:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49526450017/in/dateposted-public/)

Post-Epilogue:  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/93881943@N03/49526230041/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to say hi, [check out my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/profile) for where I’m currently hanging out on this here internet thing. Also check out PurpleAlmonds on [Tumblr](https://purplealmonds.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplealmonds).
> 
> If you liked this, please share! Kudos are love and comments are always appreciated.


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